


midnight confession

by variable_fourteen



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fluff, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-06 12:42:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17345441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/variable_fourteen/pseuds/variable_fourteen
Summary: Too often the words welled up in the back of your throat at the most inopportune times. When you wake to his low breathing, solid chest rising and falling under your palm. When his fingers, thick and eager, skip over your skin as you watch yet another vaguely entertaining PBS adaptation of some Victorian romance. When, in the height of summer, he winks at you behind his eyepatch and calls your name with Mr. Mystery’s voice.





	midnight confession

“Can’t sleep?” Stan’s groggy voice floats from the shadowy doorway he is leaning against to the kitchen table where you are sitting, bleary eyed and spooning cornflakes into your open mouth. Childishly, he rubs his eyes and lets out a hearty yawn. A fresh and innocent wave of affection rises through you. 

You pull the other chair at the table next to yours before patting the seat, an open invitation for him to join you. He lumbers into the puddle of light, thin slippers scuffing on the bare wood. A thick red henley covers his usual tank top to protect him from the freezing winds blowing through Gravity Falls during this particularly vengeful winter. For some reason he refuses to wear the flannel pajama pants you bought him and his pale legs flash awkwardly in the solitary light of the kitchen. You wonder if his ankles are cold.

He gets himself a bowl of cereal to match yours and closes the fridge door gently after pouring in the rest of the milk. The empty jug clatters when he throws it into the trash. You make a mental note to move it to the recycling bin outside tomorrow morning and remind him for the hundredth time about its existence. But right now it is too cold and there are other things on your mind.

He throws himself into the chair and hunches over his bowl to eat. His right thigh falls open to press against your hard patella under the metal table. The sound of his chewing competes with your own and you focus on the expanse of darkness yawning outside the window. The low moans of the wind through the trees and the house itself make you think about your position earlier in the night, facing the old wood burning stove in Stan’s room with his weight comfortable against you and bundled under three blankets rendered soft with age.

It had been torturous removing yourself but long hours awake and listening to his even breathing drove you to it. So here you are, at the kitchen table methodically chewing for something to do. 

Maybe you woke him when you extracted yourself from his eager hold but you doubt it. He is a heavy sleeper. It’s more likely he’s become used to your presence in his bed over the past few months and your absence left a cold space next to him. The thought makes you blush. 

Silence builds in the kitchen and perches itself right on the precipice of uncomfortable. Why hasn’t he spoken yet? You know he knows something is wrong with you but, for a selfish second, you wish he would just let you be. 

It had started earlier today when you asked him offhandedly to chop some more wood in anticipation of the freezing night. Well, it had really started months before when you realized, finally and achingly self-conscious, that you were in love with him. Too often the words welled up in the back of your throat at the most inopportune times. When you wake to his low breathing, solid chest rising and falling under your palm. When his fingers, thick and eager, skip over your skin as you watch yet another vaguely entertaining PBS adaptation of some Victorian romance. When, in the height of summer, he winks at you behind his eyepatch and calls your name with Mr. Mystery’s voice. 

But today, watching him split the wood, it was almost too much. You had gone out to bring him a Pitt Cola and the way he looked, the way he was working to take care of the two of you. Vapor curled off the top of his unruly hair, drifting into the flat gray sky, and the arms of his fisherman’s sweater were pulled up to expose his forearms to the thin, cold air. The muscles of his shoulders bunched under the material as he lifted the axe, thick biceps bulging, and you watched him bring it down with a satisfying crack, severing the log cleanly. 

“Stan!” Your voice, bright and eager, easily snatched his attention.

“Hey hon! You enjoying the view or something?” He laughed and looked up at you slyly from under his lashes. The axe dropped to rest against the stump and he clasped your free hand in one of his freshly blistered ones.

“You know I am.” You spoke with a playful edge that made him color. “Thank you for doing this. I really do appreciate it.”

He smiled easily at the praise and swung your entwined hands a little.

“Just making sure we’re gonna be cozy tonight.” His voice was soft and tender, directly in contrast with the cheeky wink he tossed you. Your heart ballooned.

“I lov-.” The words had jumped from between your teeth. You snatched your hand from his grasp and pressed the cold can of soda into it instead. “I, uh, brought you this. To drink.” You turned swiftly and half-ran back inside. Right before the door slammed closed behind you he shouted out a stilted “thanks!”. 

You didn’t see him again until the late afternoon, when together you prepared a vat of chili. He diced the onions because he knows the fumes make you cry and pressed a small, tickling kiss to the side of your neck when he reached around you to pour them into the shimmering oil. 

Soft silence enveloped the evening and dinner passed with you wrapped within your own mind. You kept trying to convince yourself that he hadn’t heard but that endeavor failed pretty quickly.

Stan had to know. It’s getting harder to stopper yourself and maybe it is good you had slipped. The thing you are doing together has become too confusing to continue to ignore. He deserves to know, to have the agency to accept or reject your love. Sometimes you think he loves you too but he has all those secrets and is frustratingly hard to know. Stan keeps his past so blurry and you’re pretty certain something sinister is buried shallow within him. Something he may never choose to tell you. Is it enough to keep you away? 

You reach under the table and rest a hand on the hairy thigh pressed against your knee. Apparently not. He slurps the milk and you search his brown eyes over the bowl’s rim.

“Stan. I-.” You trace little stars across the tabletop with your free hand.

A single thick finger, held out flippantly as he drinks, stops you. He belches with satisfaction before setting the bowl down with a dull clatter. A sigh slides from between his thin lips and he stops the motion of your hand with his large grasp. He holds your hand within his two and begins playing with it, tracing the lines of your fingers and rubbing his thumbs deep into the meat of your palm. 

“Baby, tell me if I’m about to make a fool of myself.” He ducks his head to watch his hands on yours. “Stop me, if, you know, I’ve been reading the signs all wrong. I don’t think I have but.” He trails off. 

He bends your index finger and presses his fingernail under the edge of your own. It feels strange, not painful but not comfortable either and you focus on the sensation as you wait for him to continue. 

“I’m in love with you. And I’m pretty sure you love me too.” Still he does not look at you. He presses harder, like he’s trying to shove himself under your fingernail. 

Your heart stutters with the confirmation, sweet in his gruff voice. He loves you. You try to read the familiar gray cowlick on the crown of his head. 

“Yes Stan. Yes. Of course I do.” He looks up at you and something you do not understand flickers at the corner of his lips before his features settle into a toothy smile. It threatens to spoil the moment but he rises forward, presses his thumb to your chin, and kisses you. 

The familiar pressure of his lips is elevated by this new tantalizing knowledge and suddenly the kiss is weighty and that thing you caught in his features is pushed to the back of your mind. Neither of you can take these words back now, cannot swallow them back down your throats. There is nowhere to go but forward. 

When you break away he smiles at you, small and genuine. Maybe it’s going to be hard, maybe there will be questions he will never answer, but in this moment you are certain there is only love written deep in the lines of his face. 

Another yawn splits his smile in two. When he rises from his chair, you follow him, leaving the pair of dirty dishes for tomorrow. He throws a heavy arm over your shoulders and pulls you close before flicking the light off. You trust him to lead you through the dark.


End file.
